


The Cost Of A Crown

by Uchihas_rose



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All Kind of Kinks, Angst, Blood Kink, Dom/sub Play, Evil, I am not really sure why I wrote this, I was very bored and this is what happed, Kinks, Kinktober is not good for me, Knifeplay, M/M, Multiple Pov, Myriarty, Why Did I Write This?, mormor, power and control, this is going to be a huge piece of evil shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-07-28 15:04:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16244123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Uchihas_rose/pseuds/Uchihas_rose
Summary: "Mycroft must keep the cage closed, ensuring the magpie doesn’t get a chance of flying out of it. No, it has already taken too much effort to catch this bird, therefore Mycroft isn’t going to let him just out in the open again.What really bothers him is the SM burned in Jim’s flesh, knowing there is no way he can remove those letters. He has managed to erase Sebastian Moran from Jim’s life except for those initials on Jim’s hip and he hates it so much to see them."





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I am writing this. I really don't. I have been asking myself for some days now and I still haven't been able to find an answer to that question.  
> I don't know if you'll like it. It's just... something I wrote when I was bored and I kept writing it. In some way, it is an experiment.  
> If you are wondering 'What the hell is she doing? How can she do that? This is evil!' - this is exactly what I've been asking myself. However, here it is and I hope you enjoy it. I love Crackpairs, I love Sherlock and finding the kinktober-list (although I am not participating) has been triggering something. I know it's not a common pair, I know it's not very comforting, but I still want to share it with you so you can make your own opinion of it.

_Mycroft_

 

Every time Jim stretches to reach for the cereals, a bowl or anything else on the top shelf, his shirt reveals the two burned-in letters which makes Mycroft grabs the handle of his umbrella tighter until his knuckles turn white. He hates to see those letters, blemishing Jim’s otherwise untouched skin and hates even more what they stand for, _who_ they stand for and that there is nothing he can do about it. He has managed to do everything else – all of London believes Jim dead and there is no internet at the house in America, so Jim can’t just decide to go all _Jim_ and spread the message, revealing his death to be a fake. Mycroft must keep the cage closed, ensuring the magpie doesn’t get a chance of flying out of it. No, it has already taken too much effort to catch this bird, therefore Mycroft isn’t going to let him just out in the open again.

What really bothers him is the _SM_ burned in Jim’s flesh, knowing there is no way he can remove those letters. He can keep Jim in America, far away from Moran, he can monitor his phone activities to ensure he’s not dialling the sniper’s number and he has done all of that. He has managed to erase Sebastian Moran from Jim’s life except for those initials on Jim’s hip and he hates it so much to see them.

The Irish man is looking at him from the corner of his black eyes, eyes filled with so much defiance, hatred and spirit, Mycroft feels a shudder of arousal running down his spine. He responds to Jim’s glance with his reptile smile and Jim snorts, nostrils flaring, before he sits down to eat his cereals.

“It is a bit _late_ for cereals, don’t you think?”, Mycroft asks, rising an eyebrow and eying Jim’s choice of dinner suspiciously.

Jim’s only respond is kissing his middle finger and pointing it lazily into Mycroft’s direction, before he continues eating.

The kitchen is in complete silence, except for the clock’s ticking on the wall and the spoon scraping the bowl. Mycroft sighs quietly and begins drumming the table with his fingers while watching Jim. The kitchens feel uncomfortable, rather cold and Mycroft sighs again, this time louder.

“This is very unpleasant”, he announces, keeping his eyes on Jim, “and very impolite.”

“If you want someone to talk to, get a parrot”, Jim responds, without looking at Mycroft, “I am eating.”

Mycroft inhales and exhales sharply. “I would not go so far as calling a bowl of cereals for dinner _eating_.”

“Well, what a good thing nobody was asking you.”, Jim’s tone is overflowing with irony, “ _I_ am calling it eating and it is impolite to _talk_ while you are eating. So, like I said – if you want someone to talk to, get a parrot. It will even answer you if you are giving it enough time between monologues.”

Again, Mycroft grabs his umbrella handle until his hand trembles and his knuckles turn white. Right now, he wants to slap Jim, hard across the face, with these unblinking, unyielding black eyes glaring at him, full of hated, stubbornness and so much fight. James Moriarty has never been a person who is easy to break, and he is far from being broken, his eyes are telling.

“You do have to work on your attitude, you know. Your behaviour is inacceptable.”

“Unlike me”, Jim says, his voice filled with barely concealed anger, “you are more then welcome to get up and leave. Because, you know, you _can_. You can leave. I, on the other hand, are probably going to be stuck in this gilded cage for the rest of my life. Oh, you probably expect me to thank you for that, so there it is! _Fuck you_!”

He raises his middle-finger once more, before returning to his cereal.

Mycroft sighs deeply.

“Yes, I expect at least _some_ gratitude for saving your life at the roof top’s”, he says, sipping his tea, “but apparently, I am asking too much of the great Napoleon of Crime, the King of England’s criminal empire. I thought, kings have manners, Your Highness?”

The spoon clings against the bowl, making an annoying sound, as Jim’s entire body starts shaking with so much hatred and anger.

Mycroft wonders whether Jim will get physically violent on him. The Irish wants to, he can see it in his body language, the fist he is closing, the clinging spoon, but most of all, in Jim’s eyes and his face. Jim wants to hurt him, body and soul, hurt him like Mycroft did.

But unlike Jim, Mycroft has not been making that silly mistake to lose his heart to anyone. No, Mycroft will not repeat the action which caused the king to fall.

Because every king’s weak spot is his queen. Or, in Jim’s case, his tiger.

 

Mycroft has to admit, it had been hard to figure it out, even for him. Jim Moriarty has always been a man of mystery, keeping secrets even from his lieutenants’, revealing never too much about himself and mocking the entire world while spinning his criminal web and ruling his empire, taunting Mycroft and the rest of the Government for years.

So Mycroft waited, patient and calm, waited for the perfect moment to figure out a way into Moriarty’s remarkable web and finding a weakness he could use to ensure the network’s destruction once and for all. The actual destruction he left for Sherlock – it required leg work, so his little brother would be just fine for it – while he went to get that one person Jim had let his guard down to, the one person Jim trusted. It was easier then he would have guessed, once he had known where to look and arresting Colonel Sebastian Moran had been the first step to destroy Moriarty’s work for good.

He knew he had found the right leverage and while Sherlock was busy chasing Moriarty’s more pathetic henchmen, Mycroft had taken it upon himself to throw the lovely couple of kings off their thrones.

Dealing with them had been easy from that point on – _tell Moran his boss and lover is dead, he killed himself to ensure Sherlock’s death so apparently Sherlock’s death meant more to him than you did, so how do you feel about that, Colonel Moran? It must be such a shock to you, knowing you will never see him again. Oh, we could maybe talk about giving you his ashes under the condition either you leave London, return to Ireland and never come back to London again or be a good soldier, obey orders and live the rest of your life in peace and quiet, otherwise we will take the last that remains of him and just throw it away to the trash, how would you like that?_

_Tell Moriarty Moran’s safety and further well-being is all completely depending on your  behaviour, set up a nice place in America, provided with everything you need of course, and play pretty bird in your cage, without letting anyone in London know you still are alive, because if you don’t, we will take Moran into custody, set up a 24/7 live feed and letting you watch him being tortured and after his death, we will bring you his dog tags as a reminder, so be a good bird and behave. You are not in control anymore and remember – Moran’s life is all depending on your actions and you clearly don’t want him to get hurt, do you?_

In the end, both of them had no other option but to agree. They cursed and swore – Moran mostly in Hindi, Moriarty in Gaelic – but in the end, they agreed, and Mycroft hadn’t been able to stop himself from smiling after putting the tiger and the magpie both in a cage – one for disposal and showing around, the other to become his personal pet. He had decided already from the start which one would be which, making things even more interesting.

 

And now, his price, his trophy, is staring at him, willing to punch him, to hurt him and all Mycroft can think about is how brilliant his scheme has been.

He sips his tea, ignoring the anger in Moriarty’s body before raising an eyebrow and looking at the other man.

“Please be careful with that bowl. You might hurt yourself if it should break.”

Jim wants to throw the bowl at him for that comment, he knows. The long fingers are twitching, causing the spoon to clang even faster against the porcelain and Mycroft gives him a few moments to control his anger himself before stepping in: “Would you please stop doing that?”

Again, he wants to slap Jim. He wants to hurt him, to break him, he wants that challenging look gone. He might have been able to secure Jim, keeping him away from his brother but he knows Jim is not going to submit without a fight. The next years aren’t going to be easy, Mycroft knows. But he still holds the perfect leverage to break the Irish.

Jim keeps glaring at him, shaking in anger and fighting himself to just get up and hurt Mycroft. It is almost amusing, watching the great James Moriarty struggle like that and the corners of Mycroft’s lips twitch into a tiny smile.

“You will get used to it”, he says, before carrying his empty cup into the dish washer and also taking Jim’s bowl and spoon, “I can understand having someone who is superior to you can be very intimidating and confusing at first but eventually you will get used to it.”

Leaning on his umbrella, he stands next to Jim’s chair, puts the free hand firmly under his chin and turns his head around, so Jim _has_ to look at him.

“Things can be so much easier for both of us, James. All you must do is admit that you have lost. It has been a good game but here we are – Checkmate. The sooner you realize that and accept your new situation, the easier this is going to be. It is difficult, I know, but no king reigns for ever. Your time is over, Jim. It is quite sad, actually… You have been digging your own grave without realising it. Tell me…”

He begins to caress Jim’s jawline with his fingers.

“… Was it worth it? Loosing your empire because of him? What a shame, James… Your emotions have been betraying you. All this, just to save Moran. I clearly was not expecting you to _care_ about him so much. Emotions always weaken us… What hurts more, Jim? Losing your empire or losing your lover? Maybe you will find comfort in your memories. How incredibly romantic.”

Jim spits at him, right into his face, his eyes are ablaze. His jaw is clenched, Mycroft can feel the tension under his fingers.  For a moment, he grabs the other man’s jaw tighter, buries his nails into the flesh, before slowly letting go of him, taking out a handkerchief and wiping the salvia off.

Then he slaps him, hard across the cheek, causing his head to fling sideways. He hasn’t hurt him, he knows. His men have been treating Jim far worse during interrogation, but he can not tolerate behaviour like that unpunished.

Jim slowly turns his head again and stares at Mycroft.

Mycroft smiles. “Will you apologize for that rude behaviour of yours, pet?”

“ _I ain’t yeah fuckin’ pet, Iceman!”_

The syllables are more hisses than words and more in an Irish accent than usual. The spark in Jim’s eyes has become a flame, trying to burn Mycroft where he stands.

The smile doesn’t leave his lips when he touches Moriarty’s cheek again, the faintest touch, almost nothing, but Jim flinches back immediately.

“In case you haven’t noticed”, Mycroft says, his voice so soft he barely recognises it himself, “this is _exactly_ what you are, James. You can call me whatever you like, it doesn’t matter. You will do _exactly_ as I tell you because if you don’t play by the rules, I will present you Moran’s heart on my next visit. You always told me to get one, remember?”

One last time he smiles at the defeated Napoleon of crime, at the king who lost his crown, his beautiful, headstrong magpie in its golden cage, before clearing his throat.

“I’ll leave you alone for now. Make yourself comfortable. Experience your new home. It shouldn’t lack any comfort you’re used to. I even took the liberty to stack your wardrobe with Westwood products. Wasn’t that generous of me? I hope we can have a more pleasant chat during my next visit.”

Jim just stares at him, unblinking. Mycroft smiles and makes his way to the door. He has just touched the doorknob when Jim’s voice sounds again.

“You don’t _own_ me, you know. And you will pay for this.”

Mycroft stops in his track and turns around one final time.

“I _do_ own you, James. And you better get used to it very quickly. Have a nice evening.”

Then he leaves, closing the door just in time to hear something crash against it with a _thud_ and sighs silently, hoping the chair hasn’t broken. 

He has always known dealing with James Moriarty would be quite a mouthful. But he has _won_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Sebastian_

 

The cold metal on his temple makes him flinch for a second but his hands are steady, his breath is calm. His finger pulls the trigger almost in slow motion but instead of the usually expected _Bang_ all there is, is a soft _clicking_ sound.

Sebastian lowers the gun slowly and spins the chambers again, before putting it against his head once more. This time, the cold makes the hair at his neck stand.

“ _Pathetic_ ”, Jim’s voice comes from the door.

Moran turns his head to look at him, leaning against the wall, arms crossed at his chest, eyebrow raised in both pity and amusement. He wears the suit he wore at the roof of the hospital, from the headphones resting around his neck Sebastian hears the muffled text of _Staying Alive_.

“Pathetic”, Jim says again, shaking his head, “ _look_ at you, my dear. Look at what you have become. I am surprised you’re not wearing a ribbon around your neck and let Mycroft parade you through the streets, so little girls can pet you on the head. Have you lost your teeth and claws, tiger?”

Sebastian loads all six chambers instead of two, points the gun at Moriarty and pulls the trigger until all the chambers are emptied again.

None of them harm Jim, of course. The hallucination just vanishes to appear beside the sofa and the bullets hit the wall, leaving six new holes.

Jim clicks his tongue in disproval. “Mrs Halifax is not going to like six more bullet holes in the wall.”

Sebastian puts the whisky-filled glass standing at the table to his lips and drains it in a gulp.

“British Government got your tongue?”, Jim asks, raising an eyebrow, “Mycroft should start a collection… Your teeth, your claws, your tongue… What’s next? Your balls?”

Sebastian ignores him, turns his back to this ghost-version of his boss and lover and grabs another bottle of whisky to refill his glass. He empties the bottle and kicks it away with his boot, leaving it to roll over to the other already emptied bottles. It is a lot of empty bottles, he knows.

The apartment is a mess – and so is he.

There are empty bottles everywhere, full ashtrays, clothes – his, of course, he hasn’t touched Jim’s stuff. He never will. He cannot throw it out, no matter what it takes, and he has forbidden Mrs Halifax, their former landlady and now housekeeper, from doing so. Not that Mrs H would have needed him so tell her so.

Running a hand through his hair, he drops himself down on the couch, grabs the cigarette package lying on the table and lights one, deeply inhaling the smoke.

 “I don’t like it when you smoke in the flat. You know that.”

Jim gives him another glance of disapproval, before looking around the apartment, clicking his tongue, then eying Sebastian once again.

“Plus, I thought, I had told you to stop doing that.”

 _That_ refers to Sebastian’s new habit of extinguishing his finished cigarettes on his arms, leaving red circular burn marks all over his skin. He can’t help it. He has never been a masochist, but ever since Jim has died, it doesn’t matter. Nothing can hurt him anymore. He has already been hurt too deep to ever recover from it, he feels so incredibly numb. Inflecting self-harm is the only way to _feel_ something or at least create an illusion of feeling something. It doesn’t help much, but the pain at least reminds him he is still alive.

The hallucination stares at him, eyes glaring in anger.

 “ _Sebastian Augusts Moran!_ ”

Sebastian throws the cigarette butt into an overfilled ashtray and looks at Jim’s reflection staring at him, before shaking his head and runs a hand lazily through his hair.

“Don’t _Sebastian Augustus Moran_ me. You have no right to do that, asshole! Not after what you did! I don’t give a _fuck_ about what you think. You’re _dead_ , got it?! _Dead!_ And why? Because you _fucking_ piece of shit, you _bloody_ insane Irish… _goblin_ blew your brains out!”

He is on his feet again, hands shaking, so he clenches them to fists. He wants to grab Jim by the collar and shake him, but he can not touch the hallucination.

“Do you know what is even worse than that? Worse than the fact you killed yourself? _You fucking stole my gun!_ You _stole_ my gun to kill you! _My_ gun, James! _You killed yourself with one of my guns!_ Do you know how that feels like?! I could have been the one pulling that fucking trigger myself! Basically, _I killed you!_  You hear me?! I FUCKING KILLED YOU!”

He collapses on the ground, shaking, sobbing. He wants to hurt Jim for what he has done to them, but at the same time he wants to be able to touch him, feel the warmth of his body.

He wants to hate Jim, he really does. But in the end, he always misses him so much he fears his heart is going to burst.

“I hate you”, he whispers between sobs, “I hate you so much for doing this to me. To you. To us. How could you do that, Jim? Why? Why did you do that to me? To us? You fucking Irish idiot, I miss you. I miss you so much.”

The hallucination is quiet for a while.

“I love you, you know.”

Sebastian snorts, half sob, half laughter.

“What good is that now, Jim, tell me. Yes, I love you too, more than anything else in this goddammed fucking world – but you are not real! I can’t touch you! Your words are meaningless! You are just a piece of my mind, nothing more! You are not real!”

“Neither are you.”

Jim uncrosses his arms and walks around him.

“Look at yourself, Basher. You are a mess. An old, caged circus animal, performing tricks for a piece of meat. The apartment is rotten and you… You look like a junkie. But fine, if that’s how you want to spend the rest of your life, be my guest. But that isn’t _you_ , Sebastian.”

“There is no me without you”, Sebastian responds, his voice cracking, “you made me.”

Jim’s lips twitch for a second. The ghost of a smile.

“I _am_ with you. Always. Plus, I didn’t _make_ you. I didn’t create you. I only made you _mine_.”

The hallucination comes closer and for a second, Sebastian thinks, he can feel Jim’s breath on his skin.

“You will _always_ be mine, love.”

Sebastian touches the scars on his abdomen. Precise, skilful work. Two letters, carved into his skin with a knife.

_JM_

 

It had been Jim’s idea, or more one of Jim’s spur-of-the-moment decisions in the middle of the night.

Sebastian had just returned from assassinating a drug dealer who was unwilling to pay his fee to the Firm and had been having quite a loose tongue, so Jim had sent him to deal with this nuisance. Somebody had been warning the rat, though, therefore Sebastian had to track him down first before he could finish the job. Beside that, it had been easy, almost boring. Bringing only a knife to a gunfight is never a good idea, the idiot’s corpse had been stuffed into a near dumpster in about five minutes and Sebastian had come home with a satisfied, triumphant grin on his face – where he was greeted with a whack on the head and knocked unconscious.

When he woke up, Jim had already tied him to the bedposts and was caressing his skin with a blade.

“Knife play, huh?”, Sebastian had said, his eyebrows slightly raised, “developing new kinks, are we, magpie? You didn’t have to knock me out for that, you know.”

“Surprise~”, Jim had responded, in his playful, purring sing-song, casually scratching the blade over Sebastian’s bare chest, “I was thinking about how to fight boredom while you were gone, so I decided to explore my artistic and creative side.”

“So you _decided_ to find a human canvas for your… artistic studies”, Sebastian had concluded, body trembling in stifled laughter, “I am honoured to be chosen as your canvas.”

“I appreciate it very much. But while I was waiting for you, I was wondering… _What_ exactly did I want to create?”, Jim had stroked his cheek while speaking and Sebastian had closed his eyes, embracing the touch, “it is not like you are a _blank_ canvas, you know. So many people, so many events have already left an imprint on you…”

The blade had touched the blank spot on Sebastian’s chest where once had been a nipple, until Kali’s Kitten, that tough old Indian hell-cat, had dug her claws into his flesh and torn it out. Sebastian had shivered slightly, causing Jim to smirk like the devil he was.

“I wanted to leave something… _remarkable_ ”, Jim had continued, parting Sebastian’s skin with the blade and Sebastian had inhaled sharply, especially when Jim had bent his head to lick the blood off, “something to make sure you know where you belong to. _Whom_ you belong to. You have had many masters those past years, tiger – it is time to remind you and everyone out there to whom you _really_ belong.”

Again, this wonderful, insane devil of a man had smirked, his teeth slightly reddish from Sebastian’s blood. At this point, Jim had looked like a demon, a creature from hell itself and Sebastian hadn’t been able to help himself but to fall in love with Jim all over again, while he had felt his cock getting hard.

Sebastian had enjoyed every carve Jim had made, all the pain he had been feeling had been a good pain, the best of pain and he had watched his lover using the knife like a pencil or a brush and eternalising himself upon Sebastian’s skin.

When Jim had finished his work, eyes shimmering with pride, Sebastian had kissed him, in a furious passion, licking his own blood from his lover’s lips and he had never felt more alive.

Not even the sex afterwards, wild, passionate and rough, as it always was between them, had been giving him a comparable feeling, not even when he had bitten Jim’s neck so hard he actually broke skin and too tasted blood in his mouth, no tiger he had ever bagged, no human being he ever killed, nothing on this earth had ever been comparable to this feeling.

 

He touches the letters, feeling the scars and remembers that night again. They had ruled the world together, tiger and magpie, nothing and nobody would ever able to stop them…

Such a lovely fairy-tale. But their lives are not a fairy-tale, they never were. There is no happy ever after. Not for them.

“Always, huh?”, he mutters, not looking at the hallucination, “easy to say.”

“I think I have made myself quite clear, don’t you think?”, the hallucination replies, “so, what are you going to do now? Will you keep drowning yourself in alcohol and self-pity? Will you deliver your balls in person to Mycroft or are you going to wait until he picks them up?”

Sebastian grins, baring his teeth.

“Mycroft can kiss my ass”, he replies, “they all can. I have already lost you – there is nothing he or anyone can do to hurt me more.”

Jim smiles.

“Devour them, tiger.”

“Oh, I will”, Sebastian replies, gets up and grabs some of the cloths lying around, so Mrs Halifax can wash them, “they will regret this for the rest of their lives. A jungle is a jungle, after all, maybe the _lion_ sleeps tonight, but not the tiger. _The last known survivor stalks his prey in the night_ , don’t you think?”

He doesn’t get an answer.

When he looks around, Jim is gone, and something tells him, he will not appear again any time soon.

Sebastian touches the dog tags around his neck and feels better. He has a purpose again. He will avenge Jim – what was he ever thinking taking orders from _Mycroft Holmes_? He has sworn fealty and loyalty to only one man and not even death can change anything about that.

He will show Mycroft that he hasn’t lost his teeth and claws yet. He will rebuild the Firm, gather whoever is left and continue Jim’s legacy.

London _is_ an incredibly boring city, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

_Jim_

 

 

Jim has tried to kill himself twice since Mycroft has locked him up in this bloody cage. Oh, it’s a _pretty_ cage, beyond any doubt. The Iceman has really kept word – he lacks _nothing_ of the former comfort he had while living at his apartment in Conduit Street, except for two things: Internet and freedom.

Other than that, he cannot _necessarily_ complain about the place - it’s huge and it’s even got a swimming pool and a sauna. Even the garden is pretty, his wardrobe is filled with all kind of Westwood products, just like Mycroft has said it would be. Even the smartphone his capturer has so _kindly_ provided is loaded with the music from Jim’s own which kind of makes him wonder how the bloody hell Mycroft could have possibly find out about it. There is only one number in the contacts which Jim is unable to delete – not for lack of trying, of course. Two days after his arrival to America, or better, at Sunnyvale, California (not that he would care), he has received a golden American Express Card, to which a note from Mycroft had been attached which Jim burned unread. He doesn’t need to know the exact credit limit – he couldn’t care less about it.

The first few weeks have been spectacularly uninteresting – from his point of view, at least. He hadn’t left the premises, what for? He doesn’t know anyone in America, he has no desire to meet anyone in America. He wants to go home. He wants his life back, his business, but most of all, he wants Sebastian back.

The first week he has been spending in a cold rage and fury, trying to figure out how to escape his gilded cage without endangering Sebastian’s life. He hates himself for letting Mycroft have such control over him, but he has to blame himself for that. There is no room for sentiment in the criminal business, he has always known that. No ruler of a criminal empire has ever been married or had a relationship, he should have known it would not work, but no, they both had thought themselves superior to those pathetic want to-be criminals. They had been ruling the word, thinking no one could ever stop them…

How wrong they had been… How terribly wrong.

The first time, he tried to kill himself had been at the first evening. He had thought about cutting his wrists, writing his farewell-letter – or rather his _Fuck you very much, Mycroft_ -letter – in his own blood, for dramatical effect, of course, but before he had been able to even make a cut, something had hit his neck and he became unconscious.

That was how he had found out about the cameras. Well, not exactly – it just showed him there _had_ to be cameras, somewhere in the kitchen at least, and Mycroft apparently was not very happy about losing his _pet_. Even thinking about the word had made Jim hiss in anger and curse in Gaelic.

Since his laptop had successfully been put down at the beginning of the second week when he tried to set up Internet which resulted in frying his hard drive, Jim had been terribly bored. He didn’t want to watch TV and listening to music had, at some point, been starting to make him aggressive – he considered both activities incredibly ordinary at this time and he could not think of anything else to do.

He didn’t want to be at this house, this fucking cage, he didn’t want any of this.

By the end of the second week, he decided to go for a swim. If there was a pool, he could at least make some use of it, even if drowning was incredibly boring and reminded him far too much of Carl Powers.

There shouldn’t be any cameras at the pool or the sauna – otherwise, Jim would really be worried about Mycroft’s psychic health – so he figured it to be perfect.

After all, the swimming pool did have a very dramatic flair – he had committed his first murder by using a swimming pool, he had officially introduced himself to Sherlock at a swimming pool, so why shouldn’t he _kill_ himself at a swimming pool?

Therefore, he went into the pool at the middle of the third week, after re-thinking his choice carefully, and just stayed under water, until eventually he would pass out and let water fill his lungs, drowning him.

That was how he had met Dimitri.

Dimitri Orlow did remind him an awful lot of Sebastian at first – or some Russian version of his beloved sniper, but only until he realised he hadn’t died. Being shaken, slapped and screamed at in Russian was after all not exactly how he had imagined hell to be.

Jim’s Russian had never been the best – this always was Sebastian’s specialty -, but Dimitri’s tone hadn’t sound very soothing or comforting. Apparently, a total stranger was scolding him for trying to kill himself, someone who had never met him, who had no idea of who he really was, who he had once been – and for some reason, Jim hadn’t been able to stop laughing. He had been lying next to the pool for at least half an hour, cackling like a maniac, with Dimitri just standing next to him and staring at him with a grim face.

When he had finally been able to sit up again, Dimitri growled at him like a bear in broken English, spit flying from his mouth, and Jim had wished for some of those knock-out arrows to save him from being lectured about how wrong it was to take your own life and why living was always an option.

After a while, Jim hadn’t been able to help himself – somehow Dimitri’s determination to keep him alive had impressed him and he spent half the evening sitting next to the pool and talking to the Russian.

Dimitri was his new neighbour, happily married with two kids, despite his bear-like, fearsome appearance a man with a heart of gold and apparently not one of Mycroft’s creatures which had come as somewhat of a relief to Jim.

When they had finished talking, Dimitri had invited Jim over to his place, where Jim met Nadja, his wife, and their children, Patrick and Katerina, and he had sensed a way out of this goddamn prison, a way to get away from Mycroft, to get his old life back – although this plan involved something he was not overly fond of: Playing by Mycroft’s rules and starting a life in America, at least for a while.

 _Living the American Dream_.

 

For now, the definition of the _American Dream_ is somehow learning how to cook. So far, his meals have been very one-sided – anything he had been able to find in the fridge, delivery service and Dimitri.  After saving his life, Dimitri has been making it his personal business to ensure Jim’ further well-being and since Nadja told him he was “far too skinny for such a handsome man”, he receives several dishes from his neighbour’s place and is invited to dinner once a week – Jim did not really got much of a say in that, it has been decided the first time he had been at Dimitri’s place and apparently, he was not expected to object against that or had even been asked if he was okay with that. On Thursdays, Jim is from now on expected to come over and have dinner with Dimitri’s family, so at least there is one meal he doesn’t have to worry about.

That is, of course, if he manages to survive thus far. The pot is making alarmingly sizzling noises and the lid jumps up and down. Plus, the scent is an unmistakeable sign this “experiment” is going to be another failure. Muttering Gaelic curses to himself, Jim turns off the stove and carefully picks up the lid. The steam erupting from its prison is blinding him for a moment and the stench rising from the pot almost makes him vomit. Still clinging to a tiny bit of hope, Jim risks a look and sighs. The rice-milk-mix has become yet another unidentifiable sort of burnt black slurp.

The fire alarm above him still peeps – such an annoying, high-pitched sound. Jim wonders if there might be any way to switch the alarm’s tone, so it’s playing _Staying Alive_ instead. Maybe there is – but he has no way to figure it out. The laptop is dead, and the entire cage is still without any internet connection.

Jim really feels _dead_ right now. There is no way to contact anyone in London and Jim has never been overly fond of Jack Quartz, his “colleague” from America, besides, he can not let anyone find out about his current situation. He would lose face in the criminal world, he would be unable to ever rebuild his empire.

There is only one person he could contact, only one he could trust to get him out of here, but Mycroft’s words still echo in his head and Mycroft Holmes is not the type of man who makes a joke. The Iceman has no sense of humour after all.

Jim pulls his phone out of his pocket and begins writing a text message.

_I am not dead._

_Mycroft has been lying to you._

_Come get me and let’s paint London red in his blood._

_JM_

 

Every single time he deletes the message again, every time he hesitates before making the call after dialling the number – the only phone number beside Sherlock’s he considers important enough to be known by heart.

For a while he just stares at the words, deletes them once more and puts his desperate try of cooking in the bin. He will clean up later. Right now, he lacks the energy of doing so.

The alarm is still peeping. Jim glances at it and decides to just let it go this time. Hopefully, the battery is going to die anytime soon, but on the other hand – he doesn’t care. Plus, if he uses headphones, he will not be able to hear the alarm anyways.

Plugging in the headphones, he gets himself a glass and bottle of whisky, drops down on the couch and listens to Papa Roach’s _Face everything and rise_. He wonders whether or not Mycroft knows that Papa Roach is actually Sebastian’s music. Probably not, and Jim isn’t stupid enough to tell him.

He rests his head against the couch, sips his whisky and listens to the music.

Papa Roach has ever been a point of arguing between them – Jim has never liked Papa Roach much, but he had gotten them concert tickets anyways. It was supposed to be a surprise for Sebastian’s birthday and ironically, he remembers now, the concert is going to be in Los Angeles, America.

They both have loved their criminal life but it doesn’t give much room or time for sentiment and love and in general, it was as good as impossible for them to separate their two lives in London’s public, where they are known for who they are, what they are. Jim had wanted one week for themselves, just one week in which they didn’t had to be careful who might watch, who might find out about their relationship – one week in which they didn’t had to be the Napoleon of crime and the second most dangerous man in London, one week in which they could just be two people going to a concert, enjoying the music and didn’t had to worry about who might see them together.

Now he knows only too well why there is no villain with a partner or a family – love is a weakness, a weakness which shatters every criminal empire because at some point, you will have to choose.

That is why he has always preferred having the villain’s part. The romance is usually reserved for the hero, the villain doesn’t have to worry about stuff like that, but it has happened, and it has cost him everything he held dear.

He sips his whisky, mockingly salutes to himself and drains the glass in a gulp.

_Long live the king…_

 

 

 

 

 

_Sebastian_

“When the cat’s away, the mice will play, huh?”

The other man’s eyes glitter mischievously, a grin on his face. He is holding a cigarette in his fingers and puts it to his lips, inhaling the smoke.

Sebastian links his fingers together and slightly twirls in Jim’s chair, coldly staring at Colin Smith before he leans forward, grabs the cigarette and extinguishes it on the other man’s hand.

“There is a no-smoking rule in this office”, he says calmly, while watching the other man gasp and look at him in shock, “and I better hope I misheard you just now, Smith, or otherwise this might turn very unpleasant… For you.”

A broad smirk parts his lips and he bares his teeth like a snarling tiger.

Smith’s face turns white as a sheet and he gulps with difficulty. He nods, averting Sebastian’s gaze and covers the burn with his unhurt hand.

Sebastian looks around the office, eying the other man in the room. Their muttered protests and agreeing with Smith had died down; none of them can look him in the eyes.

“Just to make things clear”, he continues, tapping the desk with his fingernails, “I am not taking over Moriarty’s organisation. I am simply picking up the reins which have fallen with his death. I continue his work – which means for you, the rules all stay the same as they ever have, got it? You fuck up, you die. You cough up the agreed fee for a crime that’s going to be committed, you stick to the jolly old Know-nothing-about-nothing in case you should be arrested, and you do as you are told. Are we clear? Just because Moriarty is dead, crime does not stop being a profitable business.”

He looks around the people sitting in front of him – Jim’s lieutenants and the heads of the other big crime families in London: the Italian Camorra, Margaret Trelawney’s Egyptian Queen Tera Cult, the Chinese Si-Fan, led by the Lord of Strange Death and the Daughter of the Dragon...

Sebastian is going to have another meeting, similar to this, when it’s time for the annual International meeting of criminal business and he is not looking forward to it at all. It’s going to be even worse than this one, because they’ll all want to get a piece of the cake.

There’s been rumours after rumours, until Jim’s dead had been confirmed and their so-called “colleagues” have been eying the British criminal empire ever since. Scotland Yard and MI6 have begun to hunt every single one of their people down – most of their hideouts have been searched and destroyed by the police and Mycroft’s pets, several arrests have been made and whoever remained has been either trembling in terror or deserted the Firm like rats leaving a sinking ship, happily welcomed by people like Jack Quartz in America or Doctor Nikola in Australia.

Even the Grand Vampire, the leader of France’s Les Vampires, has been happily accepting the deserters from the Moriarty Firm and the Grand Vampire changes literally every week or at least every month.

Sebastian would love hunt them down personally, drag them back to England and slowly torture them to death at the Conduit Street’s basement, but it would be a waste of time and energy. There is more then enough time to finish those fuckers off at some point, but right now, he has to focus on more immediate and important things.

 Right now, he must show them that just because Jim has died, his empire isn’t going to fall apart as well. He has gathered everyone he could find, everyone who still remained loyal to Moriarty and hasn’t end up in police custody.

It’s an alarmingly thin crowd which has been showing up at Conduit Street when Sebastian had called them together, but it’s still better than nothing.

Not even a handful has remained loyal to Jim and the Firm:  Mrs Halifax, of course - as if Harriet Halifax would ever think about betraying James Moriarty! She had been his from the moment he had moved into the rooms above her brothel, just as much as Sebastian had been Jim’s as soon he had first entered the magpie’s nest. Just like him, Mrs Halifax has sworn loyalty and fealty to Moriarty and death isn’t going to change anything about that.

 Chop, the funny, aggressive Chinese man who has been Moriarty’s driver. Chop has been one of those fellas who were arrested by Scotland Yard but had to be released since they had nothing to pin down on him. Right after his release, Chop had been back at Conduit Street, swearing and cursing about the police in a rather poor English.

Sophy Kratides, the Greek hell-cat and knife throwing goddess, has also remained a loyal subject to Jim's cause. Like most of the Firm, she too had gone undercover at first, but eventually, she had been back and was more than ready to skin a few police men who just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.  

 

Then there is Sebastian himself, of course, willing to defend what Jim had built, prepared to just tear Mycroft apart, to have the Moriarty-Firm be a permanent scratch or rather a sting, unable to be destroyed, always stinging, like wasps. Jim has always said that the world was divided in people who stung and those who were the stingers. It had always been very important, for Jim and for Sebastian himself, to be stingers, not the stingees. Now, with Jim’s death, this has become his responsibility.

 

Margret Trelawny slowly claps her mismatching hands, one flesh, the other pure white alabaster like the mask which covers her face. Sebastian himself has hacked off her hand, so long ago, when Jim had taken it upon himself to set up his own collection of Crown jewels and gathered all sort of supposedly “cursed” objects and managed to enrage six fanatic races at once just to throw all the pieces into the air and figure out where they might come down. The gemstone known as the Jewel of Seven Stars who briefly was covering the statue of Mary somewhere in Italy glistens from her alabaster hand and a black pearl on the flesh hand.

This pearl, known as the Black pearl of the Borgia’s, has been among their collection of Crown jewels too and this piece’s worshipper, a simple minded, brutal giant called The Hoxton Creeper, has had the little habit of snapping people’s backs once they had grabbed hold of the Borgia pearl. For some reason – maybe because she is a woman – the Hoxton Creeper has become “Queen Tera’s” loyal pet.

The reborn Egyptian Queen is not the only one from “The Adventure Of The Six Maledictions”, as Sebastian has called Jim’s sudden desire to set up his own collection of cursed objects, who has answered the former Colonel’s call. Ironically enough the new leader of the Italian crime family is Malilella – the very same person who once threatened to kill Sebastian because he took the Jewels of the Madonna of Naples (another part of Jim’s bloody Crown jewels) and therefore, Sebastian is more than surprised to see her at this table. The last time Jim had called an international crime meeting, the Camorra were not interested in Jim’s propositions, but now... Apparently, those bloody Italians are after a piece of Jim’s kingdom as well.

That’s his fault, Sebastian knows. He has left the business unattended for too long and these fucking vultures are just waiting to pick the carcass clean. He should not have given Mycroft so much power over himself.

Now this is his chance to change something about that; he can and he will make use of this.

Jim’s people are looking at him, waiting for him to take charge, to give them directions, to lead them.

 _Devour them, tiger_ , the hallucination has said… He will. He will show Mycroft Holmes that the _idea_ will never be killed. Jim’s work will continue.

Sebastian straightens in the chair, eying all the present people with a challenging, demanding look – a little reminder of his army days. He used it very often on new, disobedient recruits who thought they could question his orders or do something stupid and idiotic.

Right now, he just wishes he could blow all their brains out, but those are the people who stayed. The people who count. Those who haven’t abandoned the Firm and Jim’s cause – not yet, anyway. Some will – the Camorra are definitely just here to figure out how to get the lion’s share of the empire – but others will stay. They’ll follow him, not like they followed Jim, but they follow him. They will ensure the Firm’s survival which is all Sebastian cares about.

Mycroft might think him beaten but he is not broken. He will continue Jim’s legacy, he will keep the Consulting Criminal’s business running, in an act of defiance against Mycroft and in memory of James Moriarty. London – no, the _whole fucking world_ – will remember his name. Forever.

Once more, Sebastian looks at the people in front of him, a smirk on his lips. He creaks his neck first, then his knuckles, before picking up a pen and tapping the desk with it.

“Well then, ladies and gentlemen… Shall we begin?”


	3. Chapter 3

_Mycroft_

Three months pass until Mycroft finds the time to travel to America again, to take a look at his price. Aside from one incident, Jim has been – so far as Mycroft is informed – behaving himself, but Mycroft isn’t fooled by that.  After all, Jim still is the Napoleon of Crime and he just _knows_ he’s planning something. Jim Moriarty is a fighter after all, a player and Mycroft needs to be prepared that the magpie will try to take over the game again. He cannot let that happen.

He does not inform Jim of his arrival – where would be the fun in that? After all, Mycroft too can have fun – although he is never too eager about it.

Jim seems to have arranged himself with his situation, Mycroft sees when he reaches the house and uses his key to enter it. The house is decorated, several things have been rearranged, but there still are multiple signs of rage and outburst – missing vases, carvings in the furniture... The rooms have also been repainted, he sees – a dark red, which looks a lot like dried blood. Mycroft hopes it really just looks like that. The stereo system is at full volume and Mycroft covers his ears for a moment, pretty sure he is going to be deaf within a few seconds. He doesn’t recognize the song or interpret.

With a clearly visible look of pain on his face he emerges the living room to relieve himself of this unbearable noise before his head is going to explode and finds the TV severely damaged. Apparently, someone has hit it multiple times with a bat and a hammer and managed to break it beyond any repair. Mycroft sighs deeply. Jim will expect him to fix it, he’s certain.

Two cats are hissing at him when he enters the kitchen, startled by his appearance, before they turn their attention back to the fishy-smelling pan on the stove. Mycroft’s lips twitch in disgust while he stares at the cats. He tries to shoo them away, without any success. Mycroft’s face grimaces. He really hates cats.

The animals’ eyes seem to follow him while he walks through the kitchen and pushes open the door leading to the garden, sauna and pool outside. He can still feel the cats starring at him. He doesn’t like it.

There is a bunch of clothes lying at one of the beach chairs, so Mycroft turns his attention to the pool, glancing at the water. Jim still doesn’t seem to be aware of his arrival, so it will be quite a surprise, Mycroft expects. He eyes the pool, looking for a dark shape in the water to localize Jim’s current position.

Something darts out of the water, lunging at him like a shark and involuntary, Mycroft takes a step back, caught off guard and startled.

Jim bares his teeth in a triumphal grin, his eyes gleaming. Water is running from his dark hair over his bare chest – for a few seconds, Mycroft follows some of the drops with his eyes, before Jim shakes his head, sending water into every direction, then hurling himself out of the pool, soaking Mycroft’s shoes and trousers even more.

He is completely naked - the muscles in his back, chest and legs are more defined than three months ago, Mycroft notices, before Jim throws the dressing gown over himself, using the towel only to rub his hair dry. He ignores Mycroft, whose jaw starts to clench slightly.

“That is not a very decent welcome”, he says to Jim’s back, folding his arms at his chest and glaring at him in disapproval, “shall we try that again?”

His trousers are dripping and his shoes squeak on the ground. Disgusting.

Jim doesn’t even look at him.

Mycroft inhales sharply.

“I’ve asked you something, James!”

“And I’ve got no desire at all to talk to you”, Jim responds coldly, still turning his back to Mycroft, “does that surprise you? If that’s the case, well, sucks to be you, doesn’t it?”

Mycroft grabs his umbrella handle tighter.

“Do not forget your position, James. Or rather, what’s at stake. Who’s at stake. Do you care so little about Colonel Moran already?”

“I thought the title _Napoleon of blackmail_ was already taken... Shall we call Charles Augustus Magnussen and tell him about it? I don’t think he’ll be very pleased about that, Iceman.”

So much hatred, so much fury. Not just in Jim’s eyes, but also in his voice. Again, Mycroft feels some weird sort of arousal passing down his spine. It will take more to break Jim, so much more...

Mycroft blinks, very slow.

“What do you know about Magnussen?”

That grin again. That triumphal, victorious grin, even though Jim has no way of contacting anyone in London, even though he is basically powerless, dethroned, caged, completely at Mycroft’s disposal and mercy. Still, Jim smiles as if he owns the world, as if he still is king of London’s underground...

Jim steps closer, so close that Mycroft can smell the chlorine on his skin. His hand trembles slightly, he tightens his grip.

“What do _you_ know about him?”, Jim purrs, slightly tilting his head to one side, “we could do swapsies...~ But maybe you can’t tell me anything new... Would that not be disappointing?”

Before Mycroft realizes it, his hand is wrapped around Jim’s throat and he is pushing the other man over the pool. The umbrella has fallen down, lying where he stood just seconds ago.

“Do not push it too far”, he says, fighting with himself to remain completely emotionless and controlled, despite this outburst, “I am warning you. Even my patience has it’s limits and although I am currently here with you, all it takes is one phone call to have Moran arrested and I will have him delivered here piece by piece. I let you choose which piece of him you want first. You are not in charge anymore, James. Don’t you ever forget that.”

Jim glares at him, struggling to keep breathing normally. His nostrils are slightly widened in order to gain oxygen, his pulse is starting to get faster, but all he does is grinning, even trying to laugh, despite the lack of air. It’s a rattling, stuttering sound and barely recognizable as such, but it enrages Mycroft even more. He tightens his grip, almost cutting Jim completely off oxygen, before he realizes what he is doing and lets go of Jim’s throat again. He takes a step back, clears his throat, straightens his suit and picks up the umbrella.

“Get dressed properly”, he says, completely calm again, “I will not have dinner with you – and we _will_ have dinner together and it will not contain any cereals – if you don’t get dressed. We have several things to discuss. The... wildlife in the kitchen, for example or what happened to the television.”

He returns into the house, not caring at all if Jim follows him or not. Moriarty is smart enough to know the consequences. Mycroft has made clear who is in control and although he regrets losing his temper like that, he still will find a way to force Jim into complete submission.

 

The cats still hover over the frying pan, hissing at him and baring their teeth.

“Shh!”, Mycroft hisses, clapping his hands to scare those beasts off, which remain unimpressed by his action. He grinds his teeth. Bloody monsters...

The door is slammed shut; still ignoring him, Jim walks over to the cats, gently scratching the animals’ ears. One of them is a dark tabby cat, the other is black and white spotted.

The tabby jumps on Jim’s shoulders, arranging itself around his neck, while the other presses its head against Jim’s fingers, purring darkly.

Mycroft’s lips twitch in disgust.

“Is that the _wildlife_ you were referring to earlier?”, Jim asks bemused, “how horrible! You hear that, my darlings? You are _so_ terrifying, poor icy-man all scaredy-kitty.~”

Mycroft’s nostrils vibrate dangerously and Jim grins, while still caressing the cats.

“Get those beasts out of here”, Mycroft commands coldly, looking at the animal curled around Moriarty’s neck, “I don’t want them in the kitchen. Did you hear me, Jim? _Get. Them. Out._ Now, before I kick them out and if I have to do so, they will not ever get in again. Are we clear?”

Once more, he looks at Jim’s middle finger and he sighs deeply.

“Stop acting so childish, Jim. Get the cats out of the kitchen, sit down here and let’s eat. We should have a proper chat anyways. We need to settle a few things, since you still don’t exactly seem to understand your position. We can either have this done as equals and grown-ups or, if you want to be treated like a child, you can have it that way. I didn’t know you listed _Age-play_ among your kinks, but if that’s the kind of stuff you’re into...”

He smiles thinly, reptile-like.

“You have to understand that you are no longer the person who makes the rules. You’re not in command anymore, James. The sooner you realize that and accept it, the easier it’ll be. If you prefer the _hard_ way, of course, this too can be arranged. So I will try this once more: Get the cats out of the kitchen now, please.”

He holds Jim’s gaze without blinking. He is not expecting Jim to comply – he is too stubborn, too proud, still too used of having things his way.

Mycroft sighs slightly.

“James, please don’t have me make that call. Shall I tell Moran about that? How little he means to you? At the hospital you were rather worried about him, willing to agree to my conditions... What happened now? Have you grown used to America, your new life here? I must say, I am pleasantly surprised. It’s not so bad, is it?”

The black-and-white cat jumps down the counter, pressing itself close to Jim’s legs for a moment, before disappearing into the living room and up the stairs. The tabby stays at its place, purring again. The whole cat seems to vibrate.

Jim blinks slowly, caressing the cat’s ears with almost mechanical movement.

“Since when do you enjoy hearing yourself talk so much?”, he says after some moments of silence, “are you done talking now or shall I set up a microphone, so I can record you, just in case you have to say anything important?”

Mycroft closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.

“Final warning”, he says, “I’m serious, James. I am done with your constant provocation. Once more and you will regret it, I can guarantee you that. In case you haven’t noticed it – sarcasm is not going to help you at all.”

He moves over to the stove, puts the empty pan in the sink. Traces of burnt food are visible at the pan which the cats haven’t eaten.

“I was suggesting to have a nice, home-cooked meal, but regarding the current status of the stove and everything... Haven’t you ever learned how to cook? Not even now? What do you eat, James?”

Jim rolls his eyes in annoyance.

He has gotten himself dressed – a mauve coloured T-shirt and navy-blue jeans, both of the latest Westwood-collection, Mycroft knows.

“This casual look suits you, magpie”, he remarks, “I told you, you would not lack anything of your usual comfort. I have kept my promise – matter of fact, I have kept _all_ of my promises so far. Now, would you please answer me? It’s a complete innocent and normal question, after all. It’s not even personal. Answering it can’t be that difficult, can it?”

A muscle twitches on Jim’s jaw.

“ _Deduce_ it, oh lord and master of mine.”

He pulls some headphones out of his pocket and ignores Mycroft again while typing on his smartphone.

Mycroft closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and slowly counts to five.

“Fine”, he mutters, “as you wish.”

He twists the phone out of Jim’s fingers, throws it into the sink, before jerking the headphones as well, dropping them to the ground and stomps down on them. The tabby hisses in alert and jumps down from Jim’s shoulders, but Mycroft barely notices it.

“It. Is. Enough!”, he hisses, glaring at the other man, “you clearly lack discipline! I’ve been treating you far too well, Moriarty, so let’s try a different tune, shall we? I’ve been doing my best to make this place as comfortable as possible to you, I even took the liberty of providing you with the latest Westwood products. I have given you time to get used to America, your situation here – and that is how you repay me? I’ve _saved_ you, you ungrateful Irish bastard! If it wasn’t for me, your body would have been dumped somewhere, so isn’t it much better to be alive? I am sticking to everything I have said – your life here is better than that of most citizens in London and clearly better than any criminal mastermind deserves. I could have also brought you to Sherrinford instead, James, how would you have liked that? Locked behind glass, just like your beloved Crown jewels, with absolutely no chance of ever getting out again. I could have had Moran arrested for all those murders he committed on your payroll – or worse. Just working for you could have gotten him sentenced for life, you know. But he is alive and well, free to do whatever he likes.”

“ _So you say!_ ”, Jim spits back, “what proof do I’ve got for that, Iceman, tell me! Your _word_?”

He sneers.

“Oh yes, how very reassuring! I’ve been stuck in _America_ for three bloody months, with absolutely nothing to do, but sitting around all day, under constant supervision. There is not even internet! But I suppose I can _trust_ your word, can’t I?”

 He is stepping closer to Mycroft, glares up to him. Only a few small inches separate them by now and Mycroft feels Jim’s breath against his throat and chin. Again, something tingles on his insides, down his groin. He gulps hard when he feels a more than obvious reaction down there – and Moriarty’s surprised and slightly irritated look tells him that he is not the only one who noticed it.

 

 

 

 

_Jim_

For a few moments, Jim is too stunned to react. Of course he knows that, despite all his robotic behaviour, Mycroft Holmes too is a human being. A terrifying thought, he has to admit, but despite calling the eldest Holmes-sibling _The Iceman_ , Jim always has known that Mycroft hides a human body underneath his suit.

A pretty normal, though slightly overweight, male human body. The thought this also means Mycroft is having the _cravings_ of an actual human being, has so far never occurred to him. Sherlock is probably the most introverted person he knows when it comes to sex, which made the casual sex jokes a given, just like the flirting.

But Mycroft... Jim never had had much interest in the eldest Holmes. Mycroft is a terrible buzz kill, so there was not much of a point in convincing him for a game or two. Not for lack of trying, of course, but Mycroft has barely bothered to give him any attention – besides having him arrested, questioned and tortured.

So _this_ is new and very unexpected, therefore Jim is unable to hide his surprise for a moment. He needs a few seconds to handle this new situation, but he manages to control his expression rather quickly. A broad smirk appears on his lips – the situation has changed. Mycroft has shown a weakness and Jim is not going to let this opportunity go to waste. He senses a way out, a possibility to escape this golden cage. After all, he has no desire to just become Mycroft’s pet, waiting for his _master_ to show up whenever Mycroft sees it fit. He is not a dog. He doesn’t like dogs, he has always been more of a cat person himself, so he is not going to let Mycroft treat him like one.

Slowly, he tilts his head, still smirking, without turning his eyes away from the other man.

“Well, now _that_ comes unexpected”, he says, a chuckle in his voice, before he runs his hands teasingly over the front of Mycroft’s suit. It wouldn’t be the first time he flirts with someone to get what he wants, it’s not even the first time he is flirting with Mycroft Holmes. But this time, everything depends on it. His escape from America, his return to London, the reconstruction of his life’s work. He cannot fail.

Up and down he runs his fingers, stroking Mycroft’s chest over that thick piece of woollen fabric. Cashmere, he feels. Too soft for a man like the Iceman, in his opinion.

“You should have been honest with me from the beginning, Mycroft”, he continues, using the other’s first name for the first time, “there is nothing to be ashamed of admitting to actual human activities. Or are you afraid longing for someone or having sex would make you too ordinary?”

His hand slides under Mycroft’s jacket for a few moments, slowly stroking his sides up and down.

“Who enjoys hearing himself talk now?”, Mycroft coldly responds. He takes a step back and straightens his suit.

“You will stop that. Immediately.”

“Oh, but you _want_ it, Mycroft!”, Jim’s voice is a dark, soft purr, “don’t deny it. Don’t be boring. It’s nothing to be afraid of, you know.”

If he’d put that teasing and that voice on Sebastian, his tiger wouldn’t have hesitated very long and nailed him to the wall before Jim would have been able to do much more than taking a few breaths.

The umbrella handle is making an unhealthy noise. Jim is quite certain it’s going to break sooner or later. Mycroft’s hands are shaking. He’s fighting for control, not only over Jim, even more so over himself. A poor try.

Jim’s lips twitch for a moment in pity.

“You know you want it”, he continues, stepping closer again and this time teasing Mycroft’s crotch, touching the slight swelling under the zipper, “what are you so scared of? You’re the British Government, why should you be scared of anything? You’re the most powerful man in the world – you don’t have to justify yourself to anyone. Plus, who would ever know about it? I am officially dead, remember?”

Mycroft’s jaw is clenching. Not only his hands, his whole body is shaking by now and Jim’s confidence swells up. He has _got_ Mycroft, he has found a crack in the ice and will use that crack to have things his way. _To beat Mycroft and return to London, to his criminal empire and his tiger._

This is just a game, like the ones he had played with Sherlock. Nothing more. Only his playing partner has changed and the location. Everything else has stayed the same – Mycroft better doesn’t underestimate him. He still is the Napoleon of crime and Mycroft better never forgets that. Even trapped at this golden cage he is dangerous, prepared to burn this whole bloody estate to the ground and Mycroft with it.

_Oh, the game is on, Holmes. You have no idea what is expecting you._

He won’t just _beat_ Mycroft. He will destroy him, crush him, until there is nothing left of him, just the faintest memory. On the other hand, though, what did Mycroft expect? That Jim would just _submit_ to his capturer’s hands? Has the British Government forgotten who he is?

Jim is the fire which will burn down everything standing in its way, raging, an uncontrollable disaster. He’s going to melt the Iceman, like snow on a warm spring day and afterwards, he will stand over his fallen enemy and laugh at him, right into Mycroft’s face, and then, he will kill him. He has never been fond of actually getting his hands dirty and killing another human being, but for Mycroft, he’s going to make an exception.

_All hail the king, Mycroft Holmes. Long may he reign._

“Is that one of _your_ kinks?”, he continues, teasing him on purpose, “necrophilia? Dear me, Mycroft... How _wicked._ What would our dear Queen say if she knew about that?”

He is provoking, as best as he can. He wants to know what Mycroft will do, weather or not he will loose his temper, like he has at the swimming pool for a few seconds when the always to controlled, so guarded respectable Holmes has given a glimpse to his _other_ side, his dark side. That side he is keeping guarded at all times...

 _That_ is the key to break Mycroft. Doing everything which is necessary to escape from America.

_Come on, Mycroft... I am waiting.~_

For a few seconds, Mycroft keeps struggling. He tries to talk, turning the subject back towards Jim’s eating habits and the broken telly, but his voice cracks. He is unable to focus, his lips are trembling and for first time _ever,_ Mycroft seems to be insecure. The umbrella handle snaps with a loud, sharp _crack_. The erection in his trousers is very obvious by now.

Jim licks his lips, very slowly, very seductive. _So close...~ Come on, Iceman... Melt. Give in.~_

The next thing he knows is hitting the wall, his back painfully slammed against it, pressing the air out of his lungs, Mycroft’s hand around his throat again, agitated, hot breath hitting his face, angry eyes glaring at him and a stiff prick pressing against his upper thigh.

Jim laughs again, cackling like a maniac, laughing right into Mycroft’s face, despite the man’s hand wrapped around his throat, and rubs himself provocatively against Mycroft’s middle.

Mycroft inhales sharply, his fingers twitch, intensifying the choking for a moment and Jim stops laughing, leans back his head, closes his eyes and moans softly, before he looks back at Mycroft, a wicked smirk on his lips.

“We’ve got two options here now, my dear”, he rasps, using whatever little air he’s got left, “either you finished what you’ve started and choke me properly, for good – or you gonna fuck me. I’d be perfectly fine with either of it, but the choice is up to you, really. So... What is the mighty Government going to do?”

His hips are pressed firmly against the wall – his thoughts flicker to the burned in letters on his skin.

_I am sorry, tiger._


End file.
